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“Perhaps you would care to have my friend take a look at her.” At their startled look he hurried on. “Watson here is a fully qualified medical practitioner. I’m sure that at any time he’d be happy to give you his professional opinion.”

As I murmured acquiescence I saw Charles dart a look at his sister. She maintained an impeccable composure.

“Thank you, you’re very kind, but we have our own family doctor who takes care of Mother’s needs.”

“Perhaps you might know him, Watson. What is his name?”

“Dr Halliwell,” she replied, after a brief hesitation. She was beginning to look a trifle annoyed, as well she might, by Holmes’s persistence.

“I’m sure he’s a very good man,” I said soothingly. “And pray don’t apologize for your furnishings. This is a charming room.”

“You are most fortunate,” added my friend, in the irrepressible role he had adopted, “in owning this delightful residence in such an elite location. Its worth must be prodigious.”

Charles flushed up to the eyes. “Mother would never consider selling up. It’s quite impossible.”

“I’ve offended you,” said Holmes. “My candour runs away with my discretion at times. Ah, I see the cards are on the table. I enjoy nothing so well as a good game of whist with friends.”

“Shall we play?” said Charles, eagerly, drawing out a chair.

As the game progressed companionably, I felt a sense of awe at the expertise in which Holmes sustained the bogus personality of Sebastian Flood. It was evident that Charles Abernetty admired him immensely and hung on his every word. It was equally apparent that Sabina Abernetty was reserving her judgement on their new acquaintance. She was pleasant, but decidedly cool.

At four o’clock she rose from the table and pulled on a bell-rope hanging beside the fire-place.

“Are you calling for tea, Sabie?” asked Charles. “That would be welcome.”

Miss Abernetty’s change of position had allowed her to see the fire had fallen low. “We must ask Minter to throw on more coal,” she remarked.

“No need to bother Minter. He has enough work to do. I’ll attend to the fire myself,” responded her brother.

Another bell rang somewhere in the house. A look of vexation crossed Charles Abernetty’s face. “There’s Mother,” he said, tersely.

“I’ll go,” said his sister, serenely. “It’s time for her medicine.”

“I suppose,” remarked Holmes, idly, as he watched our host at his fireside task, “it requires quite a few servants to maintain a household of this magnitude.” Charles did not appear to hear, but Holmes persisted. “It is admirable of Miss Abernetty to take the place of a nurse.”

“It’s how she wishes it,” replied Charles. “While my sister is away, gentlemen, I think we have time for a glass of this very excellent port.” He crossed to a decanter on the sideboard.

“Not an excellent port,” observed Holmes, as he sipped appreciatively, “but a superb one.”

Charles flushed with pleasure. “From my own cellar. I shall fetch you each a bottle.”

“Nonsense. I’ll go at once.”

“For shame, to leave you alone,” said Miss Abernetty a moment or two later. “Where is Charles? Minter is just about to bring in the tea.”

“I believe your brother has gone down to the cellar.”

A coal exploded from the fire onto the rug. Sabina started violently, seized the tongs and threw it back on the grate. She spent some little time examining the rug for signs of damage while my friend sat observing her.

Charles returned presently with a bottle under each arm. His demeanour had markedly changed. His face had a pale clammy look and his hands shook as he placed the bottles on the table.

“Why, Abernetty, you are ill!” exclaimed Holmes.

“Charles, come and sit down.” His sister led him to the wing chair, turning a grave face to us over her shoulder. “My brother suffers from a morbid fear of confined spaces. You should have sent Minter, Charles.”

“You’re right, of course,” Charles mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “but he does so hate to go there himself.”

“Stuffy places, cellars,” agreed Holmes. “I’m distressed that your kindness has caused you such discomfort.